


sacrament

by charbroiled



Series: Sanguine Throne [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bath Sex, Blood Drinking, Edelich AU, F/M, No Self-Harm, Sanguine Throne AU, Vaginal Fingering, Vampires, but the wrist wounds persist, crimson flower but it's a metal album au, hubert/ferdinand background noise, lots of blood, metodey is mentioned but not in this fic, wrist wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charbroiled/pseuds/charbroiled
Summary: Metodey's escape frays Hubert's last remaining nerves. His duties to Edelgard, of course, come first; one of those is to bathe her. Angst.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra
Series: Sanguine Throne [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535759
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Sanguine Throne (Edelich) AU Multiverse





	sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> Sanguine Throne AU (in short, Edelgard's Crest blood causes a vampiric addiction if you drink it). Followup to [golgotha](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302897). Technically takes place after the events of [consumption](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437749), but that doesn't need to be read to understand this.

Metodey fled.

———

Hubert watched the bleeding imperial guard— _former_ guard— flee, torn between pursuit or simply licking his wounds and considering this a temporary loss. Hubert had eyes in all of Enbarr, and Metodey, well. Did not so much as have a close friend, as far as Hubert could tell; nor had he managed to acquire any after all these years. There was nowhere for him to flee to. Let him scrape out his pathetic existence for a few more days; Hubert would find him. Dizziness swept over him, and he steadied himself against the doorframe of the unused wardrobe.

He was in no state to take down a madman. So. Retreat, it was. He stepped back into the room and surveyed it, to force his way through the darkness constricting his vision. He'd suffered more significant wounds before, and from better people.

The room was in a worse state than he'd realized. Half-furnished to begin with, the rug was crumpled into the middle of the floor, blood— Metodey's— splattered across the chrysanthemum wallpaper Hubert had shoved Metodey against, as well as dashed onto the floor— that must have been from Hubert's neck. There was a single bloody boot-print in the mess. By some small miracle the rug— expensive, imported from Brigid— was unstained.

Hubert peeled off his gloves and pocketed them, and set about straightening the rug and wiping down the blood as best he could without solvent until his head spun and his legs threatened to give out from under him. He pressed the handkerchief to the hole torn in his neck and shoulder— which Metodey had _chewed_ and _swallowed,_ the grotesque scrawny _jackal—_ as he sunk to the floor, all too aware of the blood on his clothes that he was trailing across the carved stone.

The weakness in his legs indicated he had lost more blood than he'd managed to imbibe from the idiot. How careless of him. Not a mortal wound, especially not now, not with the healing Her Majesty's blood bestowed upon him— he pushed the image of the butchered Immaculate One's carcass out of his head. _Edelgard's_ aid. Under the handkerchief he could feel the edges of his wound tingling as though it were aware of the missing flesh, reaching out to regrow rather than simply clotting up.

Waiting for his legs to steady did not have to be wasted time, though. He would piece together a narrative and a list of crimes for this fugitive. Metodey had attacked him after shirking his duty. And others, undoubtedly; he was dangerous, feeding from other nobles rather than being dutifully content with the blood of her Majesty. Unhinged and violent. Simple enough. He'd be found and brought back to Hubert within the week.

———

More than a week passed, and the jackal remained unfound. Hubert hoped he starved in a ditch somewhere outside Enbarr, limbs crushed by a carriage's ironshod wheels. It was possible someone had sheltered him and was feeding him— but seemed unlikely, given the man's odious personality. Ah, well. 

More importantly, Hubert himself was starving. His throat twinged. Edelgard’s blood has bestowed upon those who drank it certain healing abilities, but the wound stung, and the scabs pulled at his neck when he moved his head. 

He couldn't bring himself to drink. He dared not. Blood in his mouth and blood on his hands; he felt it and smelled it wherever he went. Even Ferdinand's touch turned his stomach lately, reminding him of the jackal's panting joy, his excitement at the ability to simply accost any noble and drink. Disgusting. He could even go after Ferdinand— well. The thought of Ferdinand standing over Metodey's skewered corpse, Metodey's stolen blood spattered across Ferdinand's sunlike face, did make the corners of his mouth turn up in a slight smile. Yet _none_ of this would have been a problem if only Metodey had taken one of the _many_ opportunities presented to him to die in the war.

The appetite itself was gruesome enough, but Hubert had inured himself to that. It wasn't so different from his dream of a crimson path, smoothed for Edelgard. No, the deeper fear that clutched Hubert's stomach in cold claws was the abhorrent thought of losing his faculties to the Emperor's blood. He'd seen it too many times. Locked-away Caspar, feral Metodey, most often in the bleary eyes and uncoordinated steps of Ferdinand. Yet all he wanted was for Edelgard to hold him and brush his lips with her finger and hold her wrist to his mouth—

Why should ordinary food seem appealing in comparison?

No matter how Hubert forced himself to eat, he remained hollow. 

He could drink the diluted strains Bernadetta and her inner circle partook of, with their alcohol and their garish poetry, but Edelgard’s blood traded as a delicacy— it made him sick. He could drink the concoction invented for the fallen blood-beasts— the Crestless, among whose numbers counted his old comrade Caspar, who had succumbed to the pull of Edelgard’s blood, drank deeply and without restraint, and become monstrous— but that would admit a weakness, that he might lose control and join them. The single trait he prided himself most on.

Neither of these appealed to him. There was no thrill to them. There was exuberance to the hunt, the heat, the feel of the body under him supplying him the blood, especially Edelgard’s body, her fingernails digging into his back, his mouth parted against her—

—he needed to stop thinking about it. These were the thoughts and desires of an animal. He was not an animal.

When the hunger ate at him like this Hubert wondered if his decision had been worth this penance. At the time he considered it a just precaution. Edelgard trusted him, more truly than anyone else. She trusted him so deeply that she had forbidden him from drinking her blood even while he was the one in charge of letting it. To stand by her side and open a wound in her, to keep it open until it no longer even attempted to heal, to see the resolve in her eyes while he pulled her open and let her crimson life well out, all for this shared dream of theirs…

The pain would have been less sharp had he turned the blade on himself.

Instead, behind her back, he drank as much as the lords had drunk, and he had been heady and proud and fulfilled. By imbibing her blood he was as close—closer—to her than any of her other ministers, her retainers, her lords, and bound to the same rules. That they could never raise a blade to her, even if she wished it. That they could never turn against her, even if she in some moment’s folly asked, as if what she had committed could ever have measured against the crimes of the church. That they were hers, ad aeternum.

He was starving. He pushed aside his meal, barely cognizant of how little he had touched it.

He had an appointment to keep.

———

Edelgard's private baths were crimson tile, half chosen for the vibrant shade and half for the practical reason that regardless of how Hubert scrubbed, some trace of blood would remain. Just as the war stained the foundations of the Empire. The room's accents were in a marble so polished and black that every movement in the room was reflected in them: both a salve and a spur for his compulsive vigilance. Right now the reflections merely proved that there were only the two of them now, both translucent pallid ghosts against the marble’s veins, as he gently brushed Edelgard’s white hair down into a fan across her back..

She sat relaxed, fully nude, up to her shoulders in the hot bath. He had carefully cleaned the unhealing wounds and bound her wrists in waxed cloth bandages, and now her hands rested delicately to either side of the bath, alabaster against the red porcelain. The researchers at the institute, under her own guidance, had taken great care to make the wounds stay open but not gape or fester, but her hands were always cold and there was the slightest tremble in her grip now— when she closed her hand around his— where there had before been only steel. 

Her eyes were closed, and her head tilted into the soft strokes of the brush. The two Crests she bore had leeched all color from her hair, leaving it a fragile silver which she often ornamented with horns. Such a minor thing, in the grand scheme of things— appearances— yet so crucial and time-consuming to maintain. Compared to gathering political and tactical intelligence, it was such a… banal concern. Yet poor hygiene or an insufficiently intimidating presence would fail to inspire awe and loyalty. Funny, how the human mind worked.

Hubert let his knuckles drift over her cascade of hair, silky from use of soap and oils. "Ferdinand was surprisingly thorough with washing your hair while I was gone, wasn't he?" he asked, though it was less a question than an observation. He was a suitable retainer to the Emperor, at least for the times Hubert had business to attend to elsewhere.

"Surprisingly? Don't be cruel, Hubert. Of course he was." Edelgard tilted her head back, to watch Hubert impassively through silver eyelashes. "He cares deeply about us both."

"I meant for someone who forgot to cut his own hair for five years."

Edelgard crushed her laugh into a slight cough, her hand rising to her mouth before setting it back down, likely remembering before he had to chide her that if she moved too much, the blood would gather under the bandage and run down into the bath. "Well, why do you think he learned?" she said, regaining her composure as efficiently as always. The echo of her little laugh eased the ache in his chest. Her voice almost dulled the edge of the everpresent hunger.

Hubert leaned in and let his lips brush her cheek. She made a soft noise, and let her eyes drift close again.

"Are you tired, Your Majesty?" he asked, and drew back, though his hands lingered on her bare shoulders. Here, the lavender and rose of the bathwater covered the scent of her blood, for the most part, and the florals kept his mind clearer of the compulsion to hold her wrist, so close, to his mouth and part the slit flesh—

"No. Please continue." Her voice was a murmur; content, not exhausted.

He complied, trailing his fingertips down to cup her breast, and she arched into his touch, opening her eyes just slightly to gaze at him in such a way that his heart caught in his throat. Vulnerable, trusting, expecting nothing more from him than what he would give, even under the crushing weight of the towering burdens she carried. An honesty, a depth of compassion that he could never match. After all these years as her shadow, that it was still so easy for her to render him speechless… no, she was his heart, and he would forever be her blade.

Edelgard's breath was warm, mingling with the steam of the bath. "Join me," she said. Quietly, as though they might be overheard, though of course Hubert had ensured that would be an impossibility. "Now."

"If you will allow me a moment to disrobe?"

She tipped her head back and laughed, again; a brighter laugh, one rarely heard in these last years. "And if I demand your service immediately?"

"Then these clothes will be ruined," he said, mildly.  
  
"Mm. That _would_ be a shame." 

Ah, it was nice to have her demand something of him. In truth Hubert wasn't wearing much at the moment; slippers, loose trousers, easy enough to shed. She traced circles on the tiles while he slipped out of his clothes, her fingertips leaving a brighter crimson spiral than the surface, dulled by the steam.

The water was hot, but not unpleasantly so, against his skin. Edelgard became lightheaded easily, these days. He settled in in front of her, as if a supplicant— not a worshipper, nor out of hunger, but merely to serve her, and only her.

"Your Majesty—"

His voice dropped to a lower register, almost a whisper; Edelgard cut him off before the last syllable, kissing him— no, biting and tugging at his lower lip with an insistence that made him gasp. Her breath was sweet, no hint of blood, only the refreshing lavender of the bath.

Hubert sat forward and squeezed her between his legs, so that her thigh pressed against his groin. He cupped her breasts, soft and firm against his fingers. He wanted to take her nipple into his mouth as well, but she was— occupying him, her arms drawing in to knit into his hair and pull him more fully against her. Instead he circled her nipple with his thumb as her pulse and breath quickened against him. Her blood dripped through her bandage, onto the nape of his neck, a pleasant shiver down his spine. His other hand his slipped down between her legs, over the mound of her clitoris. 

She was not, of course, loud, and neither was he, so every sharp gasp or bit-down noise they could elicit from each other was savored. The heat of the water and her touch and her body rocking against him was heady, how he struggled for breath between her arms, how despite the blood-curse her grip was still steel through to his bone. 

Edelgard pulled away to catch her own breath, gazing at him through pale lashes with her violet eyes, hair plastered to her thin jaw, and he kissed her down to her neck, where the blood beat in veins through her throat and the blood mingling with the lavender made his thoughts hazy.

The hunger— for her or for her blood, her touch, her breath, her pulse, it muddled— mounted in him, throbbed in his chest and deep behind his hips. He felt like he was going to lose his mind, his sense of self in this cresting wave, but it was such a small thing to lose for her, for her scarlet cause.

He breathed in the beat of her heart, the tilt of her head towards him. "Your Majesty," he murmured. "May I?"

"Yes," Edelgard breathed. As though it were the most natural motion in the world, he delicately freed her hand from his hair and brought it to his lips, sliding down the bandage to suckle at the wound.

Warmth, relief, euphoria, salt and copper, that he was was hers… yes, finally, he was whole.

Edelgard inhaled, the sound shifting to a moan, and a shudder, not of pain or disgust but pleasure, ran through her. Her nails dug into his hips, hard enough to bruise, as she leaned into him, ground herself against his hand. He pressed her hand deeper against his mouth, and then her hand on his hip clenched and she shoved him away, back into the bathwater. He needed—

He whimpered, the pathetic noise torn involuntarily from deep in his throat. He sat water and covered his mouth, shame and the unsatiated hunger warring within him. If he begged, he—

No, she was furious, her bandaged hand clamped over the opened wrist. Streams of diluted red ran down over her palm, from where his teeth had sunk in. Ice crawled through him.  
  
"Your Majesty, I—"  
  
"I don't care for an explanation," Edelgard said, her voice magnitudes colder than the horror burning inside him. "It is clear you have been starving yourself again. I will not allow you to sit here and destroy yourself in front of me!" The sharpness of her tone stung as much as the words. Of course she wouldn't. Foolish, pathetic, giving in—  
  
"I would let you," she said, much more quietly, "But it will kill you. _Regardless_ of how humiliating you find it, you are human. I order you, Hubert— do you hear me?— to swallow your damned pride and go to the Institute and tell Hanneman to supply you with the mixture Caspar and the other turned beasts use."  
  
Hubert could not look at her. He studied the inlay of the crimson tiles.  
  
"Do you hear me?" Edelgard repeated, sharper. "This cannot continue."  
  
He shifted in the water to stand, slowly, chest aching, and placed his hand over his chest and bowed. Words were not sufficient.  
  
"Get dressed and call for Ferdinand to attend to me."  
  
The shame burned brighter in him.  
  
"Yes, Your Majesty."  
  
Hubert dressed in silence, Edelgard with her back to him. Blood swirled in the water. The bath would have to be re-drawn, the tiles cleaned, her wrist re-bandaged… a list of tasks in his head which she no longer trusted him to complete. The bruise on his hip would be a suitable reminder of his inadequacy for the next few days.

That Ferdinand, the blood-drunk, the addict, that he would be the one to pick up the pieces Hubert left— he may as well have ripped a hole in himself, gutted and ragged and prickling contempt. Only for himself— Her Majesty was correct, of course. He was a beast, of insufficient will, unworthy of serving her, just as those Crestless who had given in to her blood's sweet fever chained as thoughtless monsters in the institute with their glistening scales and curving horns and bright fangs, just as disgusting _Metodey_ with his smirk and blackened claws and blackened eyes— and now finally she saw the beast he was, blood on his hands, saw everything that he had done for her. Understood that they had both sacrificed _her_ for her cause, willingly so, and that there was nothing left for him to give but himself.

He imagined he looked as sallow as he felt as he stalked through the door. Hubert ran his hands through his damp hair as though that would comb it out into presentability.  
  
Between his pallid fingers came away black feathers. He crushed them into his palm.  
  
A vulture. Had he been called that, once?  
  
How fitting.

The blood on his lips was a bitter tang he still savored.


End file.
